


Mistletoe, AKA "Merry Christmas, You Bastard."

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John Watson Is A BAMF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was a request - someone wanted me to use the line, "One day we'll be standing around a Christmas tree, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there." So I did.</p>
<p>Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'll make it up to him eventually. And I am really sorry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe, AKA "Merry Christmas, You Bastard."

“Oh, Christ,” Lestrade sighed, running a hand over his face. “Sally, what did I tell you? I said to keep everyone out. _Everyone._ I don’t care what happened between you.”

“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

“Yeah, because next year it’ll be you,” Lestrade muttered, turning away. “Where’s John?”

“He’s... I dunno, he was here a minute ago.”

“I expect he had to leave so Anderson didn’t _hear him laughing,”_ he said, bending down and raising his voice at the end. “Eh?” He prodded the body with his toe.

There was a whimper. Lestrade regretted the toe, immediately. “Sorry, mate. Don’t try to move. I think John’s going to be back soon.”

“No!”

Lestrade and Sally had to crouch down and restrain the man, whom no one really wanted to touch. His trousers were gathered halfway down his thighs, and his shirt was yanked up around his torso so that his bare buttocks were exposed. Lestrade would have been grateful that he was face down on the carpet so buttocks were _all_ they saw, if it hadn’t been for the mistletoe. The _clump_ of mistletoe. The word was unavoidable. Some of the branches had snapped, but most of them disappeared in the bleeding crack between Anderson’s buttocks. 

“Jesus!” Lestrade muttered, all but kneeling on one of Anderson’s arms as he struggled. “What the hell?”

“Um, I think I should tell you...” Sally said slowly, turning to sit squarely on top of Anderson’s other forearm. “John wasn’t, uh, seeing him for medical reasons.”

Lestrade’s face snapped up at her as Anderson finally stilled. He seemed to be crying now. Lestrade ignored him. “Donovan, you tell me right now, everything, or I _swear_ I will -”

“John’s the one who did it,” Sally said quickly, then bit her lips. “He, uh, put it there.”

“John Watson?” Lestrade asked in shock.

“Anderson was waving it about, and he was trying to call Sherlock over, and John told him if he didn’t shut up right then, he’d...” She trailed off, and nodded toward Anderson’s injured arse.

“Sherlock _didn’t_ do it?” Lestrade frowned.

“Oh, he would have, sir. If he’d been in earshot. Anderson’s been after them all night. He kept trying to get Sherlock to help decorate the tree. In Anderson’s defense, I think he was drunk.”

“I think he was sober,” Lestrade sighed, rubbing his hand across his face. “Blimey.”

“I meant Anderson.”

“I know,” Lestrade shot back. “Right. Well, I dunno what to do when John Watson snaps.”

“You can’t invite them again next year, sir,” Sally said seriously. “You just can’t.”

“It’s the department’s Christmas party, Donovan, not a red-carpet do in front of the press. They’ve done a hell of a lot of work for us.”

“But this is going to keep happening,” she insisted, pressing on. “The guys are always going to have a go. And one of these days, it won’t been John Watson and just the mistletoe. One day we’ll be standing around a Christmas tree and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”


End file.
